The narrative potential of the adversity faced by black Americans was too good not to be mined, and so filmmakers found ways to make white characters suffer similar indignities: in this way, audiences could enjoy the tragedy without the guilt.

We talk about the need to read, about reading at risk, about reluctant readers (mostly preadolescent and adolescent boys such as Noah), but we seem unwilling to confront the fallout of one simple observation: literature doesn't, can't, have the influence it once did.

According to Eva Heller, in her "Psychologie de la Couleur," only one percent of people surveyed named gray as their favorite color. I feel, therefore, unique in my perversity. As though I have befriended someone hard to like.

No matter what the theme of my essay or story — lesbian love, wilderness exploration, mother/daughter relationships — it seems everyone wants me to include more about my legs. I've never understood that. Why would I think about my legs all the time?

When Salvador Dalí's wife Gala died in 1982, the first person outside of his household to hear the news was Juan Carlos, the King of Spain. Dalí telephoned the reigning monarch himself, and for once, this was not an act of posturing or presumption on his behalf.

The romance of Camus and Casares is richer, if not sadder, when considered alongside the narratives of each of their work. There is an eerie doubling of life and art. Absurdity is the only certainty, and this is confirmed over and over again by coincidence and chance.